


My Life Has Changed Forever (Now That I've Grown a Year)

by IShipItLikeUPS



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Angst, Character Study, F/F, Gen, I also have a lot of feelings about that, I just have a lot of feelings about Emma Swan and her tragic childhood, Music, Pre-Evil Queen | Regina Mills/Emma Swan, Romance, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-25
Updated: 2017-01-04
Packaged: 2018-09-02 03:01:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8649118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IShipItLikeUPS/pseuds/IShipItLikeUPS
Summary: A look at Emma's formative childhood experiences. Because before Emma was the Dark One or the Savior or Henry's mother, she was a girl.





	1. Oh, Mirror in the Sky, What is Love?

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from "Five," by Young Man, which I highly recommend you go listen to. You can hear it on YouTube by adding /watch?v=wSQ4HV5njz8 to the end of the URL.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been over two years since I updated my other fic because I'm garbage, so instead of working on that, I've started a new fic. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ Oops. 
> 
> The songs for this chapter were "Landslide," by Fleetwood Mac, and "Put Me Down," by The Cranberries, which you can listen to on YouTube by adding /watch?v=K_PQ4fRQ5Kc or /watch?v=itrmuY_qF84 to the end of the URL, respectively. The chapter title is taken from the former.
> 
> I'll continue this at some point, I swear.

When Emma is eleven years old, she steals a Walkman and a music tape from a local record store.

When she later remembers the moment, she will think of the way her heart pounds in fear and excitement as she speed walks out the door, the weight of the stolen goods in her jacket pocket, the feel of the winter air on her skin once she makes her escape. She will remember all of this with startling clarity. But what she will remember most of all is when she listens to the tape for the first time.

It is Fleetwood Mac’s White Album. Emma makes it through seven tracks out of a twisted sense of obligation to her purloined goods before boredom overtakes her, restlessness invading her being in that way it has and making her antsy to go off and find more trouble. But just as her finger reaches for the pause button on the player, the eighth track on the album fades in, and everything stops.

For 3 minutes and 19 seconds, Emma is someone else.

When the last chord echoes into nothingness and silence takes over, Emma abruptly comes back to herself from that faraway place with a great, gulping gasp. She can hear her heartbeat in her ears, magnified by the confines of the clunky headphones, and with a start, she realizes she is crying. She scrubs furiously at her cheeks and whips her head around, searching for ways in which the world must have changed over the course of the song, but there is nothing, and she realizes then that the music has not changed the world, only her.

This quiet moment of introspection is shattered by the rude interruption from track number nine and the simultaneous sound of her foster father arriving home from work, and there is no more time to dwell on songs that somehow sound like hope while Emma is busy scrambling to hide her stolen prizes.

It isn’t until later that night as she stares at the ceiling, sleep eluding her, that Emma realizes that listening to the song was the first time the directionless energy she is so often filled with had ever settled to stillness.

***

A week later, Emma returns to the scene of the crime.

She shouldn’t. She knows this, knows that the people who get caught are the ones who revisit their victims, but the song has been playing on repeat in her head during her lowest moments (which, realistically, is most of the time), and the record store has a magnetic draw that she can’t ignore. This, coupled with the misguided belief in youth’s invincibility, sees her pushing open the store’s door once more, bell ringing to announce her arrival. The woman behind the counter glances at her briefly before going back to her inventory list, leaving Emma free to wander up and down the aisles as she rifles through the different tapes on display.

If she had been paying more attention, if she had been as vigilant as she normally is, as 11 years of foster care has _made_ her, she would have heard the sound of heavy feet approaching her from behind. But she isn’t paying attention, and the smell of cigarette smoke and the sound of soft music has lulled her into a false sense of security, so when a hand falls on her shoulder with a grip like iron, Emma isn’t prepared at all.

“It’s awful brave of you to come back here, girl. Awful brave, or maybe just awful stupid.” The voice is deep and scratchy, the result of years of smoking, but it doesn’t sound angry, and although Emma’s initial reaction is to fight her way out of this person’s grasp, the deviation from her expectation gives her pause.

Emma sets her face into a mask of mildly indignant indifference as she attempts to shake off the stranger’s hand. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She is silently proud of how little her voice quivers.

The hand spins her around to face its owner, and Emma finds herself looking up into the eyes of the woman from behind the counter. The woman’s lips purse as if she is deciding how to proceed before turning down at the ends. “I know you stole the Walkman, girl.”

The rush of adrenaline that Emma had managed to tamp down returns in full force, images of her foster father’s angry face, her social worker’s disappointment, her entire life being uprooted yet again running through her head.

Emma’s jaw takes on that stubborn set, and her eyes burn with the effort of holding back her frustrated tears, and still she does not cry, anger overtaking her helplessness as it so often does and making her shake and shake and shake, trembling with the struggle of containing so much rage in such a small body. “Then why didn’t you say anything?” she finally manages, biting back the bitter bile rising in her throat.

The woman’s eyes go soft, then, kind in a way that Emma is not used to, and she looks at her for a long, long time before she says, “Because you looked like you could use some understanding.”

Emma, who is unused to understanding, much less the kindness that goes along with it, doesn’t know what to say to that, so she says the only thing she can think of: “I’m sorry.”

“I’m sorry, too,” the woman says, releasing her arm, and Emma doesn’t fully understand what this woman is apologizing for, but it aches nonetheless, forms a hard knot in her throat that she isn’t quite able to swallow down, making her look away.

When Emma raises her head again, the woman is holding out a tape. At Emma’s questioning look, the woman lets out a rough laugh. “A Walkman’s not much use without any tapes, now is it, girl?” Emma doesn’t know how to tell her that she doesn’t have any money, but it turns out that she doesn’t have to because the woman presses the tape into her hands, folding Emma’s fingers over the plastic casing. “Consider it an advance on your paycheck. You’ll work here every day after school until you’re done paying off that Walkman. And if you can still stand being around me after that, the job is yours. Does that sound fair?”

Emma can’t remember the last time anything in her life was fair, but she’s certain that it’s been even longer since anyone asked her for her input on the matter, so she just nods dumbly, still bewildered by the whole situation.

“Good. Now, what name should I put on your name tag?”

Emma stares back mutely, unused to being spoken to and expected to respond (Being screamed at, as it turns out, doesn’t typically require much talking on her part.).

The woman doesn’t bat an eye, just waits for Emma to find her tongue.

“Emma,” Emma finally gets out. “My name is Emma.”

The woman extends her hand, and Emma tentatively takes it.

“Well, Emma, it’s nice to meet you. My name is Maude, and I just so happen to own the store you’re about to start working at. I expect to see you on Monday.”

Maude has a handshake that is somehow firm without trying to prove anything, the grip of a person confident in their own strength, and Emma likes it immediately, finds herself liking _Maude_ immediately.

“Yes, ma’am, I’ll be here.”

Maude laughs again, low and rich, and says, “Just Maude will do.”

“Yes, ma’am. I mean, Maude.” Emma inwardly cringes, afraid that she has already ruined things, but Maude just smiles at her and pats her on the shoulder before slowly making her way back behind the counter, and only then does Emma realize that Maude is old. She carries herself with so much of that quiet certainty that gives the illusion of youth that if it were not for her impaired speed, Emma would never have known.

She stares a moment longer at this strange shopkeeper before shaking her head and making to leave.

“Oh, and Emma?”

Emma pauses at the door, one foot over the threshold, and turns back. “Yeah?”

Maude’s face is kind but serious when she says, “Track 12 is my favorite. I’ll see you Monday.”

Emma looks down at the tape in her hand. _Everybody Else Is Doing It, So Why Can’t We?_ , by The Cranberries. “Monday,” Emma repeats. “Got it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you liked and/or hated. Thanks for reading!


	2. And You Always Put Me Wrong ('Cause You're Always Putting Me Down)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the adoration, Emma’s foster father had dried his tears and looked at her with bright eyes. “Did you feel it?” he had asked, face glowing with a perceived proximity to holiness. “It felt transcendent.”
> 
> There is no exact word for the way that Emma feels, but this is what she thinks of when she listens to the song Maude recommended—her foster father’s look of rapture when the ceremony was over. She could not understand it at the time, but she thinks that he was right, that she can understand it now, that, listening to the music, she almost feels the way he must have felt in that moment: out of body and transcendent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I made some minor edits to the previous chapter to improve readability, but if you don't feel like rereading it, you're not missing much.
> 
> Chapter title taken from "Put Me Down," by The Cranberries, which you can listen to on YouTube by adding /watch?v=itrmuY_qF84 to the end of the URL. I know I already mentioned it in the previous chapter, but it doesn't really come into play until this chapter.

For the rest of the weekend, there is a direct correlation between how much Emma anticipates the coming Monday and how much time seems to drag, meaning that, as usual, she suffers the most only when she remembers that she has something to look forward to.

The tapes help distract her from the slow crawl of the hands on the clock, hours spent lying on her back in a patch of sunlight streaming in through the attic window, watching dust motes swirl and collide against each other as she contemplates the uncertainty of her own future set to a soundtrack of Fleetwood Mac and The Cranberries. Maude was right, Emma decides; track 12 is the best one on the album. Something in it resonates with her in ways she can’t quite describe, like her specific frequency is hidden somewhere in the music, sending reverberations down her spine with every chord. She feels like there must be a word for it, some phrase that fully captures how listening to the song makes time seem to melt away, leaving Emma suspended in the stasis of deep, deep thought, consciousness expanding outward into the distant future, but if there is one, it is beyond her vocabulary for the moment.

It is the closest she has ever felt to God.

Many foster homes ago, her parents were religious to a fault, dragging her along to various services throughout the week. Emma always hated it, hated sitting in a room full of people worshipping some distant deity as if their prayers could possibly matter to a force great enough to create the whole universe. She could never understand how many adults believed with unwavering faith, not when she herself had already been disillusioned so young by reality. God never did anything for her.

When she thinks of this foster home—it is not often, nor is it with any particular fondness, but when she does—Emma remembers one service specifically, how she was forced to attend what her foster father had referred to as the Eucharistic adoration. He had said it in hushed tones, awe in his voice, as if each syllable held immeasurable importance.

From the way he had said it, she had expected some sort of miracle, an indisputably celestial sign that could convince even the staunchest nonbeliever. Instead, she had been forced to kneel uncomfortably for two hours and watch people dressed in ostentatious golden robes—the same people who preached about helping the poor—parade around a piece of bread. She had looked at the faces around her, waiting for someone to laugh and break the spell, for the child to point out that the emperor’s new clothes were merely nudity masquerading as fashion. But no one did, and for the first time, Emma understood the strength of belief, how faith could turn just a piece of bread into something divine and beyond question.

After the adoration, Emma’s foster father had dried his tears and looked at her with bright eyes. “Did you feel it?” he had asked, face glowing with a perceived proximity to holiness. “It felt transcendent.”

There is no exact word for the way that Emma feels, but this is what she thinks of when she listens to the song Maude recommended—her foster father’s look of rapture when the ceremony was over. She could not understand it at the time, but she thinks that he was right, that she can understand it now, that, listening to the music, she almost feels the way he must have felt in that moment: out of body and transcendent.

So Emma listens to both tapes on repeat and stares at the ceiling rafters, and around her, life goes on.

***

Monday rolls around on creaking wheels, but finally, it arrives, and with it come all the anxieties and misgivings that Emma had managed to contain for a weekend, spilling into her thoughts with the rhythm of a lifetime of not being enough.

In the end, she needn’t have worried. Maude is gruff but kind, and it bleeds into her actions and words. When the bell on the door jingles with Emma’s entrance, Maude looks up at her over the rims of her glasses and smiles broadly. “Well, well, look who’s back!” she says.

It is the first time anyone has ever seemed genuinely happy to see her, and Emma doesn’t know how to react.

If Maude senses any discomfort from her, she doesn’t call attention to it, choosing instead to bustle Emma over to a massive pile of seemingly random tapes and instruct her on what needs to be done. “These all need to be organized alphabetically by artist and then by album title. Do you think you can handle that?”

Emma nods, eager to please, and Maude returns to her spot behind the counter, readjusting her glasses and squinting down at the papers before her.

She becomes so engrossed with the task at hand that she almost misses it when Maude absentmindedly asks her how school went.

Emma doesn’t know how to say that she has no idea because she didn’t actually go, so she continues sorting tapes, trying to find a way of answering that is vague enough as to not require any more details. But, as usual, she doesn’t have the words, and something about the way Maude has looked at her so far, like she could be _worth_ something, renders her incapable of lying.

The silence in response to the question stretches out between them, and if Emma didn’t know how to answer before, she certainly doesn’t know how to answer now, not when she can feel the weight of Maude’s gaze on her back. She sets down the tapes she was sorting and clenches her hands into fists to stop them from shaking, staring resolutely down at the table as she listens to the sound of Maude going still behind her.

This day, it would seem, is a day of firsts for Emma, because in addition to the first time anyone has been happy to see her, it is also the first time that anyone has ever cared enough to be disappointed in her, and immediately, Emma knows that she never wants to feel this way again.

Behind her, Maude sighs. “You did go to school, didn’t you?” she asks in the voice of someone who already knows the answer to their question, and oh, how is Emma supposed to look her in the eyes ever again?

The tension reaches a boiling point, the sound of her pulse roaring in her ears, and just as Emma is bracing herself for a blow, a slap, a physical manifestation of an adult’s anger, she feels a gentle hand come to rest on her shoulder instead, turning her around to look up at a face that is not angry but worried.

Maude’s eyes flit back and forth, seemingly searching her for something, before she asks the question that Emma is sure will be the final nail in the coffin of this brief-lived employment (As much understanding as Maude has extended towards a would-be thief, in Emma’s experience, people do not react well to orphans.): “Why not?”

Emma tries to muster up the courage necessary to bring this house of cards crashing down and silently berates herself (She should have known better than to think she deserved anything good in her life.), but it’s easier said than done when Maude is looking at her like she cares.

Finally, Emma manages to swallow down her reticence, and as she explains her situation, she watches Maude’s face carefully, steeling herself for the signs of pity that she is sure to see there, but she finds none, only a deep sorrow with origins beyond Emma’s understanding.

When she is done, the two of them stare at each other in a silent battle of wills until finally, Maude speaks: “Don’t you think it would be better to prove people wrong than live down to their expectations?” She doesn’t say it critically. Instead, she asks it like she is genuinely interested in Emma’s ideas on the matter, like it’s okay to not have an answer yet as long as Emma keeps thinking about it until she does.

Emma’s brow furrows in thought. The truth is that she has spent so much of her life being told that she will never amount to anything that she had started to believe it. It had never occurred to her that there might be another option.

Maude gives her one last pat on the shoulder before letting the matter drop and tilting her head toward the pile of tapes. “Come on, then. Those tapes aren’t going to sort themselves.”

***

That night, Emma lies awake thinking about what Maude said. She had always assumed that she was destined for a lifetime of failure and being unwanted. But now that she is aware of the possibility of a new future, that her life is what she makes it, she finds herself craving a better tomorrow with an intensity normally reserved for her dreams of parents.

Finally, after many hours of soul-searching, she falls asleep with the silent resolution to Maude (but, more importantly, to herself) to be the type of person people can be proud of, the type of person _she_ can be proud of.

For the first time in a long time, she sleeps like she is at peace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The only reason I got this done was because I was stuck in bed with a migraine all day, so if anything doesn't make sense, just know that I have definitely seen better days.
> 
> As always, let me know what you liked and/or hated. I'm over on tumblr with the same handle, if that interests you.


End file.
